


Cohabit

by gnomeslice



Series: Amerikate [3]
Category: Young Avengers
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-27 11:23:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gnomeslice/pseuds/gnomeslice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kate and America move in together. Domesticity ensues. Also, lady love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Asking America to live with you wasn’t something you had exactly planned.

It sort of just happened.

Billy and Teddy were fighting, which has become nearly a daily occurrence with Loki’s instigating. A heated discussion between the two of them wouldn’t have been such a big deal if Teddy weren't so restless. He’ll say his part, then storm to another room in a frustrated huff, making Billy’s only option to follow along after him. Eventually their fights will loop the entire makeshift headquarters twice over. Somewhere between the third door slam and an accusation of reality manipulation, America caught you eye, her hand reaching out for her jacket. Without a second’s hesitation, you followed her to the door. Stepping into the night air felt like a escaping from a prison cell. The boys mean a lot to you, they know that, but it’s suffocating at times. There are too many elbows to knock against, never enough food around, and you’re so sick of putting the toilet seat down.

America hasn’t said a word, walking by your side down a random city street.

You have an idea as to what’s going on in her head and ask, “Are you hungry?"

She gives you a sideways glance and nods to the neon diner sign across the street, “Way ahead of you, princess.”

You laugh because you hadn’t realized that she had an actual destination in mind, or that you had been following her lead the entire time.  You can’t say that it doesn’t feel nice, not needing to think for a moment. Not needing to be constantly aware of everything going on around you, constantly in fear of making a mistake and having one of your friends pay the price. No, letting America take the lead is feels very nice. And so does her hand, wrapping around your upper arm as a taxi speeds by in front of you. The confident grip both confuses and excites you while you cross the road. She doesn’t let go until you’ve stepped onto the sidewalk. Surprisingly, you’re able to keep that curious smile off your face, acting like it didn’t even happen. Like she didn’t just escort you across a street. 

America is more focused on food than an analysis of her own actions. A bell chimes overhead as the door opens. You smell wondrous things, hear the sizzle of a short order grill, and see the most delicious looking apple pies on display. It’s a cute little diner, the floor is a checkered blue and white tile that matches the color of the counters and booths. The waitress, an adorably greying woman, looks very impressed when America orders a monstrous burger that you wouldn’t think she could finish if you didn’t know she could eat three in one sitting. You ask for a piece of apple pie and a chocolate milkshake, keeping it simple and sweet.

“How long do you think it will be before it’s safe to go back?”

America shrugs, chewing as thoughtfully as a person can, “This shits been going on for a week already. I’m not even sure I want to go back.”

Your lips frown around your straw.

She holds up her hand to stop your next question, “I’m not saying I wanna quit the team or anything, but being on a team doesn’t mean we all have to live together.”

You know that’s true. The Avengers live their own lives and come together when it matters. It would be nice to be able to breathe again, have a sense of privacy. You really miss privacy.

“Have you been on a team like this before?”

America pulls an indecisive face, “It wasn’t really like this. We worked under the radar and were always on the move. I don’t think we stayed in the same state for more than two days at a time.”

You’re about to ask more when she continues.

“You know I was on that team when I first met Loki?” America tosses a napkin onto her empty plate. “The prick tosses me into dimension of dead people—but not just dead people, these guys were the depressing ass _leftovers_ of dead people—”

“Like ghosts?”

Her hand twists back and forth at the wrist as she tries to think of the right word, “More of a... lost-soul slash zombie-wannabe kinda situation. These guys were fricken bleak.”

“Oh,” you stack you plate on top of hers and slide them to the end of the booth, “that really sucks.”

“Girl, please. That was just the scenery,” she closes her eyes and slouches in the booth, crossing her arms. Star spangled boots settle on the seat next to your thigh, crossed at the ankle. “I had to fight this giant meathead who kicked my ass to hell and back. _Then_ I had to rally the dead guys into some creepy séance shit before I could finally take him out, and even that was gross because—what are you smiling about?”

You’re smiling at her. The story and the way she tells it. How her hand waved around when she mentioned the séance incident, and the line that appeared between her eyebrows when she admitted to getting her ass kicked. Her implied resourcefulness makes you proud in some odd way. You really want to ask more about how she managed to get out of there. Mostly, you’re smiling at the way she’s frowning at you.

America doesn’t open up much. She rarely talks about what her life was like before joining the team. You know it’s a blessing to hear this story. She trusts you to hear about Loki’s involvement, to realize it's not something that should be overlooked, and to be discreet about it with the rest of the team. That trust really means a lot to you, so you're smiling because you're lucky to have it. There’s a spark of hesitation behind her eyes and you know it’s because sometimes America takes offense to smiles. You would try to explain that you didn’t mean anything by it, you were just enjoying her story, but you’re not sure if that would help.

Instead you say, “I’m getting my own apartment, you should come with me.”

You’ve never seen her look so surprised, her eyebrows almost get lost in her dark curls. You want to laugh, not because it’s funny but because you really enjoy seeing those small moments of genuine breaks in her guard. Maybe if you get her away from the boys for longer periods of time you’ll see more of them. Maybe you can find the America Chavez behind the brash attitude and left hooks.

“Are you serious, Bishop?” America’s surprise has evolved into skepticism.

“Yes,” you hold her eyes and cross your fingers under the table. “I mean it.”

She studies you for a long while and just when you’re about to say something awkward to reassure her there were no hard feelings if she declined, she nods.

“Alright, I’m in.”

This time you don’t hold back your smile, “Awesome.”

\--

Apartment hunting is fairly easy. You figure out very quickly that America isn’t particular about the details. As you look around thinking about the available space and surrounding neighborhood, America will wonder off to look out the windows. Privately, you guess she’s worried about if she’ll be able to fly out of them or not. You wouldn’t mind a place with roof access either. When you finish your tours you usually find her sitting somewhere in the kitchen, the only room America thinks is worth inspecting. You’ll see the entire apartment while she touches countertops and measures fridge space.

That girl’s entire world revolves around her stomach.

“Did you want to see the rest of the place?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

You know her well enough to know that she doesn’t approve of something, “What don’t you like?”

She puts her hands in her pockets and leans against the counter top, “The stove.”

“What’s wrong with it?” you inspect the appliance. “It looks brand new.”

“It’s _electric_.”

You don’t say anything because you don’t really get the difference or why she’s talking about the stove like it’s insulted her. When she realizes you’re clueless she mumbles foreign obscenities under her breath and pinches the space between her eyes, "You can't get decent temperature control on electric stoves. It's like, fucking scorching or barely sizzling and there's nothing you can do about it."

“No way, you can cook?” you blurt out. The look she gives you makes you back pedal, “Of course, I meant that in a  _I’m very impressed_  sort of way, not in a _I’m totally shocked_ kind of way.”

“I’m so sure,” America rolls her eyes, lightheartedly affronted. “Yeah, I can cook, but not on that piece of crap.”

“How come you haven’t said anything about cooking?” you wonder out loud. “The team goes out to eat nearly every night.”

“Just because I can doesn’t mean I want to cook for six people.”

“Ah,” you nod, understanding, “when you put it like that, it’s a secret worth keeping.”

“I mean,” she shrugs evasively, her sneaker tracing the lined kitchen tile, “two people, that’s fine. I don’t mind cooking for two people.”

When America looks up from her shoe and sees the smile on your face she scoffs like you’re the most ridiculous thing on the planet. And you're totally fine with that because she wouldn’t mind cooking for two and you’re moving in together and she’s trying to say that she wouldn’t mind cooking for you and something about that makes you smile big and ridiculous and that’s fine. 

She shoves her hands in her pockets and walks off, grumbling about good old fashion gas stoves.

You’re still smiling when you follow along.

\--

After three days of searching you find a place that even America likes.

At first you think she’s sold on the skylight windows—then she sees the kitchen. Her fingers drum along the counter top as she walks, her eyes examine cupboards and drawers. She stops in front of the stove, which she considers the heart of a household as far as you’ve been able to gather. The stovetop is iron clad and something that reminds you of medieval dungeons. America isn’t the most expressive person in the entire world, you’ve accepted that, but you see the tilt of her eyebrows and know she’s impressed.

That’s really all you need to know about the place.

Papers are signed, handshakes are made, and you’re all set to move in at the end of the week. That’s relatively easy for America, who can fit everything she owns in a faded military issue duffle bag. Your move is a little more comprehensive, America helps you with boxes and bringing in furniture. That night, the first you spend under this roof, she takes care of dinner. She makes a stir-fry that fills the whole apartment with spice and warmth. You sit on the countertop a little bit away and watch her turn off the stove top and slide the pan onto a cool burner.

“I’m going to get you and apron,” you announce, passing her an empty plate.

America’s eyes slide to you with little amusement and a whole lot of skepticism.

“Don’t worry,” you wave off her concerns, “it’ll totally match the rest of your wardrobe.”

She shakes her head and hands you a plate of food, “Eat that. We don’t need any more ideas from you until all the boxes around this place are empty.”

You glance at the... smallish gathering of boxes that still needs to be unpacked, “Oh, we’ll get to that. Besides, I think my ideas are actually pretty awesome. Got us here, didn’t they?”

America catches your eye and offers you a fork. It’s the closest thing to an agreement as you’re ever going to get and that’s alright with you. She talks in her own way. She carried your stuff up three flights of stairs without complaint, she went out for groceries while you unpacked your clothes, and she made dinner, all to say thank you.

Then you take a bite of the food and realize it’s the best thank you ever.

“Christ, America, this is really good.”

You catch a bit of her smile before she ducks her head and turns to the iron stove burners, “Can’t beat a good flame.”

\--

“So how’s living with Miss A?”

Teddy slides into the seat next to you and pushes a chocolate milkshake in front of you.

You thank him for the milkshake and try to hide your smile behind your straw, “It’s great actually.”

Together you look across the arcade, spotting America through the flashing lights and groups of teenagers. She’s been playing on the same game for about twenty minutes now, you think it’s her favorite because it’s the only one you’ve ever seen her play. Apparently it’s a popular one, as two boys are standing off her shoulder looking impatient.

One of them leans on the side of the game cabinet. His lips move but you can’t hear what he’s saying over all the bells and whistles of the arcade noise. America just might be pretending she has the same problem because she completely ignores him and continues to jam away at the game buttons. He repeats himself, reaching for her arm—you’re already cringing.

She doesn’t even look away from the screen; her hand snapping from the buttons, catching the boy at the wrist, and twisting hard. You might not have been able to hear what he said to her but you hear his yelp loud and clear. America uses his own warped arm to push him away from her game. His friend scampers along with him. She keeps playing and you don’t think her score suffered at all.

Teddy turns back to you with incredulous look, “I’m guessing she doesn’t like you touching her things.”

“I tried to fold her laundry once,” you give him this exasperated little grin. “That will never happen again.”

He laughs around a mouthful of nachos.

“But seriously,” you glance over at America again, just to see her biting her lip as she focuses entirely on her game. “She’s great. Did you know she cooks? Because she can cook like, really well, and she’s always hungry so she’s doing it all the time. I’m telling you, it’s all amazing food.”

“Always a plus,” Teddy agrees.

America’s awesomeness as a roommate is not something you expected to want to talk—or brag—about, but you tell him about how she always takes the time to pick up things needed around the apartment while she’s out. You laugh about the times you’ve actually been able to convince her to wear the apron you bought her.

“That stays between us,” you warn him just as Billy walks over to the table.

Teddy nods his understanding and pulls the chair out for Billy as he walks up. They sort of fall into their own world, like couples usually do, and your attention slides across the arcade. America is still playing that same game, only this time she’s not alone and something tells you this company is welcome.

She’s really pretty, that’s the first thing you notice about the girl leaning against America’s arcade game. She’s pretty and she’s laughing, tossing blonde hair and electric blue highlights over her shoulder. The smile on America’s face is tiny, faint in comparison. Her eyes cut away from the screen in front of her just to watch that laugh. You think her smile is not only sincere, it’s sort of proud. America made this girl laugh and she’s thrilled about it.

Sipping on your milkshake, you watch them talk. America keeps most of her attention on her game, hands working buttons and joystick with a confident ease, every few moments replying to something the girl says. You wish you knew what they were talking about. You wish you knew what put that smirk on America’s face and is making her foot balance on the toe of her shoe like that.

The blonde slides closer to your roommate and takes a step over the line for you. It’s not the proximity, not really, it’s the hand slipping around America’s arm. You touch your own arm, remembering America’s hand there once on a late night walk across a street. You finally understand that this girl is interested in your friend for more than her skill on Metroid.

“Hey, you alright, Kate?”

“Hm?” you glance over at the boys, who finally decided to include you in their conversation. “Yeah, I’m just—hungry. I’ll be right back.”

You’re standing from the table before they can say anything else and heading for the snack bar. There’s a plan in your head somewhere, something silly and spontaneous. The server pushes a huge basket of chili cheese fries your way and you take it with a generous smile.

When you turn the corner around the line of game cabinets and find your target without any trouble at all. She looks very nice today, with the game’s display light glowing against her skin and a charmingly casual attitude in her eyes. You’re not sure if she notices someone coming up next to her or if the smell of greasy food catches her attention and makes her look your way.

“Hey,” you think her eyes are very pretty when they’re trying to focus after staring at a bright screen for too long.

“Kate,” she blinks a few times, “what’s up?”

You give the blonde a polite smile and turn to America to make your offer, “So I ordered small and salt-less and they gave me a smothering pile of saturated fat.”

America’s attention, split between your face and your basket of chili fries, strays long enough to kill off her poor little character in the game. She just died in a game she’s dedicated the better part of an hour to and she doesn’t even notice. The corner of your mouth curls into a sly grin because you’ve got her. Even the blonde knows it, her hand gliding off America’s arm like it was never supposed to be there in the first place.

You tap America’s foot with your own, “Come over to the table and help me with these chili fries, will you?”

“Yeah, alright,” America lets go of the joystick and takes the basket of fries. Like an afterthought she glances at the blonde and asks, “You wanna take over here?”

“Sure,” she steps in front of the game cabinet and takes over the controls, giving America one last look.

You feel her eyes drilling a hole in the back of your skull as soon as you turn towards the boys.

You think it feels pretty great.

“I was kicking that game’s ass,” America tells you, already starting on the chili fries.

“I bet you were, but maybe we could pretend that you actually enjoy being social for once.”

She rolls her eyes at that, “They chose the place. Who hangs out at an arcade just to sit at a table and gossip?”

“People who were given free chili fries?” you suggest casually.

“So this is a bribe?” America gives you a sidelong glance, a smile in her eyes.

You feel a blush come over your face. You’re glad she thinks hanging out with the team was your only motivation.

“Something like that.”

“Well I don’t know how long these fries are going to last.”

“One more hour,” you promise, “then we can get out of here.”

“No, I don’t think so, chica,” she points a fry at you, making a proposition of her own. “How about we sit until I’m done eating and then I get to kick your ass at air hockey.”

“You’ll be done with that basket in like, five minutes.”

America seems excited by that prospective, “Less if you help me.”

Playfully you make a counter offer, “Forty minutes _and_ you have to make an effort to join the conversation.”

“Effort? You know how much effort I put into not punching something every time they flip their Justin Bieber bangs or when you guys talk about that stupid How I Met Your Mother show?”

Your jaw falls open, mortally offended and completely confused, “How I Met Your Mother is awesome! You’ve watched nearly an entire season with me this week.”

America rolls her eyes so hard her head tilts back, “Are you kidding me? I only watch it because you like it.”

Stopping just far away enough from the table to be out of earshot, you’re kind of still processing when you ask, “You really don’t like that show?”

She shrugs like it’s the simplest thing in the world, “No, I don’t, but whatever, it makes you laugh. Besides, it’s not like you make me shut off Animal Cops even though that shit makes you cry like a little—”

“I do not cry,” your denial isn’t even remotely convincing and a blush spreads over your face.

America chuckles softly. She likes teasing you sometimes. She likes rattling your confidence and making you flush. So you tear up a little, who cares? It’s more like a misting and it’s totally normal for people who actually have a heart. The fact that she’s only bringing this up now, with that silly bantering attitude of hers, means she really doesn’t think any less of you for it. If she wanted to be malicious she could have been when you were sniveling about abandoned puppy dogs. If she wanted to, she could have told you what she really thought of your favorite TV show before watching an entire season solely because it makes you laugh.

America is one of the most genuine people you know.

If she didn’t want to live with you, to be a part of your life, she wouldn’t be.

“Okay, new deal. If you can commit to half an hour of niceness with the boys,” there’s a challenge in your voice when you lay down your final offer, “I’ll play air hockey with you _and_ I promise to never make you watch more than two episodes of How I Met Your Mother in a row ever again.”

America chews on a fry and thinks it over. The serious expression on her face brings an unavoidable smile to yours. It’s nice to realize that she’s no longer put off by your smiles, she’s grown used to them. She trusts your smiles and that makes you feel warmer than the basket of chili cheese fries.

Finally, she brushes by your shoulder to get to the table, “You got a deal, Bishop.”


	2. Chapter 2

“It’s too early for this.”

“What are you talking about, too early? You’re supposed to work out in the morning.”

The air is still cool from the night and the moon still lingers behind the clouds. Last night, when you told America that you were going for a run in the morning, you didn’t expect her to ask if she could come along, but you can’t say you weren’t excited about the idea. Clint used to take you on runs all the time, it was a simple way to train together and pretend you were just another pair of exercise minded members of society. It's calm, relaxing, and cardio is good for the heart.

America’s yawn somehow forms words, “Before dawn? Says who?”

“First off, you volunteered. Second, everyone I’ve ever trained with… like, ever,” you say, stretching your calf against the wall of your building. “And come to think of it, I don’t even know why you need to run when you can fly.”

She pulls her hair back into a ponytail and glances at you with this sideways look like that such a weird thing to say. And maybe, today, it is. America has boundaries that she makes up as she goes along. Sometimes she’s cool with the general exchange of information and sometimes _you don't know her life._ She ignores your pondering and you think that she just doesn’t have an answer to that one. Not one that she’s willing to admit to anyway. 

Instead she rubs the last of the sleep from her eyes and huffs, “Are we doing this or not?”

You send her a smile, because you know it will annoy the crap out of her, and take off at a jog. You call back over your shoulder, “Waiting on you, Chavez.”

Her grumble is barely obscured by the sounds of her sneakers. She matches your pace and follows your lead. Soon you’re lost in your own head, thinking about training and missions and that pair of pants you saw on sale last week. You wonder if they’re still there. You’ll have to check it out the next time you’re at the mall. You should have grabbed them when you had a chance.

Your elbow accidently knocks against your friend’s and brings you back to reality.

“This is so boring,” she sighs, easily keeping the pace next to you.

“Think about breakfast," you try to motivate her, "we’re running for breakfast.”

“Shit, if you’re gonna start talking about food you’d better pick up the pace.”

She didn't mean it as a slight, you know that, but it doesn't keep you from taking the bait. In the back of your head you know America could run circles around you. There are some things you’ll never be able to compete with no matter how much you train or how much you learn. Being super powered puts her in another league entirely, but that doesn’t mean you can’t show her a nice time.

With a less than gentle shove to her shoulder, you send her a daring look, “ _No_ flying.”

“Wha—”

You take off down the street, getting a few paces ahead of her. Then the real fun starts. Using a fire hydrant as a launch pad, you vault yourself onto the top of a covered bus stop. From there it’s two strides and a rather bold leap onto an apartment building’s fire escape across the sidewalk. The metal stairs rattle under your feet and the vibrations trace up the rails into your palms. You take the stairs two at a time and don’t look back.

And it’s not like you were worried that America won’t follow along, it just feels really, _really_ , good when you hear the stairs quake beneath you.

She gets to the top a breath after you, with a lovely flurry of angry cursing that makes you grin. Luckily, she doesn't see it, you’re already on the move. You take her across rooftops and over alleyways. You show her how much you love this city and she shows you another, clumsier, side of herself. You catch glimpses of her stumbling over ventilation ducts and it was super hard to keep from laughing when she wiped out after jumping headlong onto a gravel covered rooftop. But she rolled to her feet, shook the dust off her hoodie and gave you this silly little eye roll like she meant to do it.

After slowing to a stop, you smirk from across the roof, "You run like a herd of elephants."

America scoffs, even as she moves to vault over an air conditioning unit, "We can't all be pretty little ballerinas."

Your heels teeter on the edge of the rooftop. A soft wind presses against your back. It chills the sweat at the back of your neck and plays with your hair. You feel alive, in these moments, with the city just waking up below you and your heart racing in your chest. You feel on top a the world.

With that mix of adrenalin and delight, the words come easy, "You think I'm pretty?"

The question must have caught America off guard, because her landing is less than graceful. One heel skids out from under her, and she has to grab the metal vent to keep from falling entirely. This time you do laugh, and the sound echoes through the morning air. It’s exciting to you, seeing her usually unflappable face falter.

America straightens up gruffly, flipping a few stray curls out of her eyes. She parts her lips, maybe to answer your question and maybe to give you one of her sassy comebacks, but nothing ever makes it out. For a moment she just looks at you, like she’s actually trying to come to a decision. Like she’s trying to figure out exactly what answer you'd want to hear. 

Finally she tries to evade the entire thing, “I thought we were running or something.”

You agree, “Or something.”

The muscles in your legs coil, your knees bend, and you jump. You love backflips because they’re dramatic and look cool as hell. You especially love backflips because for a precious moment you catch a glimpse of America watching you, before you fall into the alley below. Falling pass bricks and two levels of windows, you land perfectly poised on the edge of a dumpster. You wonder if America will—

No, America Chavez doesn’t look before she jumps off two story buildings and because of that your friend lands waist deep in a mixture of black trash bags and tossed away bits of rubbish. There is a priceless expression on her face, somewhere between the brink of homicide and pure terror, one you will never forget.

She blames you, obviously, and you try not to let her see how funny you think this is.

“Goddamn it, Bishop.”

America repeats this about ten times during her tiny panic attack. She reaches out to grab the edge of the dumpster just to pull back spastically, hands balling into frustrated fists in front of her face.

Her shoulders tense and she groans, “This is disgusting.”

You crouch on the edge of the dumpster and tease, “Oh, it’s not that bad. Just a little garbage.”

“Tell that to whatever’s running down my leg,” she glares at the bags surrounding her and you can almost see her skin crawl. “Christ, it’s in my shoe. The fucking garbage juice is in my shoe.”

“You’re really cute when you’re grossed out.”

America sends you a very exasperated look, a frown etched onto her face, “And you’re a sadistic prick for enjoying this.”

“The big bad America Chavez freaked out by a little trash, how could I not?”

You laugh without really meaning to, because it does suck that she’s sitting in an incubus of plague and you wouldn’t want to be in her position, but she’s adorable when she’s trying so hard to not to lose her cool.  

America holds out her hand, “Help me out, would you?”

You’re reaching out before you can recognize the look in her eye or the scheme in her smirk. She grabs your hand and pulls with a strong tug. You shout, trying to fight it, but there’s no use, you pitch forward, throwing your arms around America’s shoulders to keep from landing in the muck entirely. The ridiculousness of the situation, the playful roughhousing of America’s hands on your waist, trying to push you into the pile of garbage bags, it all makes you so happy. A laugh turns into a cough when you take in the rancid smell.

“Okay, this is really gross,” you admit, feeling all sorts of questionable materials surround you. Thin plastic garbage bags stick to your bare skin in the most unpleasant way. “Let’s get out.”

America mimics you with a scoff, “Oh, it’s not that bad.”

Her arms have settled around your shoulders in a position that keeps you from lying fully in the garbage. It’s nice of her, because your hair would be covered in those used coffee grounds if she wasn’t. It’s also nice to feel her so close. You lean into her as much as you can, pressing against her to save yourself from the trash pile and because her hair is the most pleasant smelling thing in the vicinity. 

“Yeah? How’s your shoe?” you remind her with a smirk. Her frown is telling, and the way her nose scrunches is endearing. “That’s what I thought.”

“And I think that coffee filter would make a nice hat,” America quips, lowering you towards the puddle of coffee waste.

“No,” you yelp, curling forward and gripping her shoulders to keep away from the mess, “America! America wait!”

 _“No, America, wait,”_ she teases in a silly voice, pulling you away from the trash just to start lowering you back towards it, “ _not my hair!_ ”

Throwing pride to the wind, you squeal and squirm in her hands. More than a few laughs spill out between you as she plays her game. Then, with your ponytail a few inches from death, America pulls you back into a sitting position. There’s a smile on her face that’s rascally and devious. It is her eyes that make you pause. You've seen these dark eyes narrow, doubtful, and cautiously skeptical, but rarely do you see them like this. They’re so bright, crinkling at the corners in an extension of her smile.

They're happy, she's happy.

Last night she asked if she could join you for a run. She didn’t expect to take a rooftop tour of the city that wasn’t exactly a piece of cake, but she took it in stride and even now, waist deep in a dumpster, she’s smiling with you and laughing with you and it means more than you can say.

Because America is strong enough, she doesn’t have to run to stay in shape.

Because America is independent enough, she doesn’t have to pretend to enjoy something for the sake of a friendship.

Because of all those things, you know that she wouldn’t be with you if she didn’t want to be. So it makes it so much more important to you that she is. Here, with you.

Your hand fiddles with the string of her hoodie, and the look on her face becomes a little curious. She knows there’s something on your mind and she’s waiting for you to say it.

It comes out simply, as if you’re talking about what’s for breakfast, but you’re honest when you tell her, “You can kiss me, if you want.”

You think you feel her stop breathing. Her smile doesn’t fade entirely, and you think that’s a great sign. America can deal with direct, she appreciates it. She can handle honestly, she respects it. Her eyes fall to your lips and for a moment you think she just might go for it. Then she looks back up and her expression asks for an explaination.

“I don’t expect anything,” you tell her, tugging on the hoodie string again. “And no, I guess you’ve never given me a reason to think that you’re interested, but I just wanted to let you know, that if you wanted to, you— _we_ could.”

She thinks for a long second. You guess she’s trying to figure out where this came from, what might have given you the idea to be something more than friends. You wonder if she’s weighing the odds, if she’s giving you a chance in all the little scenarios she could come up with in her head. Maybe you should be nervous, maybe this might make things awkward between you. Somehow, you stay confident. It's not that you're convinced she returns your feelings, but you know she wouldn't hold them against you. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she accepts your admission without a commitment but with a soft voice and sincere eyes. “What do you want, Kate?”

“To get out of this dumpster,” you say plainly.

It earns you another smile, a tiny roll of her eyes, and just like that world keeps spinning. She slips one arm under your legs, the other stays behind your back. America is careful as she starts to fly out of the garbage, rising slowly to keep from ripping any more bags on herself.

“These shoes are ruined,” she grumps with a frown, lifting her foot to surveying the damage midair. She has a mess of dirty splotches and streaks running down her legs, the sock and shoe of her left foot are completely soaked with some mysterious dark liquid. Squinting she asks, “Do you think that’s soda?”

“Yeah, it’s totally soda,” you agree in a voice that’s less than convinced.

In reply to your sarcasm, America’s fingers prod into your side and you twitch in her arms, trying to keep from giggling. You’re not ticklish. You refuse. But America is observant, and now she's more interested in how you’re holding back a smile than the gunk on her shoes. She does it again, lightly, curious fingers curling into the dip above your hip. You don’t give in, you take a fist full of her hoodie and you don’t let yourself make a noise.

“You gonna sneeze or something?” she asks with a smug smirk.

“I’m more likely to punch you if you do that again.”

“Oh yeah?” America shifts you in her arms, so she can have a better look at your face.

You look her straight in the eye, lean in close and meet her challenge, “Yeah.”

Then she does it.

In the middle of some shady alley, floating in the air above a dumpster, America kisses you.

Your arms tighten around her shoulders, your heart stretches against your ribs, and you smile against her lips. You feel her smiling too, you feel her soft curls tickling the back of your hand, the way she cradles you closer to her body.

America is still has a small grin on her face when she pulls away and as much as you adore her frown, you love to see her smile.

“Do we have to run back?” she asks, “because I think it’s time for food.”

Right now, you know exactly what she wants to hear, “It’s always time food.”

She kisses your cheek and takes to the sky.

While she flies you home, you think about looking before leaping and how one man’s trash became the scenery of your treasure.


End file.
